The porch had a screen around it. It was on the second story and the floorboards sagged away from the building to let the rain off. Thunderous clouds still hawk their drops to the planks but the water slides down with the same dumb necessity that brought me here.
I am a slow person, and my insides drip like syrup over things I have known for a long time. You might wonder if the syrup is a thing that even knows what it has and hasn’t covered. Has it covered the porch in North Carolina? It’s had a long time to do it.
The feeling of that place sticks to me, disobeying the way people tend to forget things. The deck slanted just enough to sicken your step. Way off trees like a dusty postcard through the haze and the heat. Humid air like a living thing pressed up against you. Sitting on that porch was like running your hand along the belly of a cat.
I did some good thinking there, I believe because it provided a stationary anticipation. A kind of begging for something to happen. Like a stone on the edge of a cliff quite secured. That sight makes your mind push, and when the rock won’t fall then it seems like time to push on something else.
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